


The Way the Story Goes (Story for Baby Girl)

by RightAsRainee



Category: Darkwing Duck (Cartoon 1991)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-06
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-11 22:34:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29875023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RightAsRainee/pseuds/RightAsRainee
Summary: Before the Masked Mallard entered her life, before that “accident” that took her grandfather’s life, Gosalyn Waddlemyer was just a kid in St. Canard, living her life and thousands of other citizens were living theirs. It’s remarkable really, what one person did to change so many lives forever...
Relationships: Drake Mallard & Gosalyn Mallard, Drake Mallard & Gosalyn Mallard & Launchpad McQuack, Gosalyn Mallard & Honker Muddlefoot, Gosalyn Mallard & Professor Waddlemeyer
Kudos: 7





	1. An Author's Note

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_Hi. Hey, real quick – I gotta do a disclaimer._

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_Keep in mind that stories don’t really work like this. It’s not that suddenly a world is beginning for someone and we join them on their story. And it’s not that we’re dropped into someone’s story at the beginning or even in the middle of a chapter in their story. That whole getting dropped in the middle of someone’s story? Common misconception. No._

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_As the reader, as the fellow-traveler. You’re in a whole world. You’re an observer – not watching a play or T.V. drama with a titular character or even with a large main cast. Everyone is the main character in their own story. And we each lead a narrative. So, how many people are there on earth? Some fourish-point-something billion?_

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_Yeah, no. Are you realizing the impossibility of the scope? There are some four-or-five-point-something billion stories out there and not a single one of them are self-contained. We’re all a supporting cast member or even a background member somewhere. Sometimes we’re not even in the cast, but the crew. Influencing small things that are mere details in the story, but never making an appearance._

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_You’ll have to excuse me that I can’t continuously backtrack to explain this story. It’s built upon hundreds of thousands before them and the enormity of it all is overwhelming to say the least. I’m one person, I can’t do justice to all of them. But I’m going to try to give you this one, to the best of my ability and as far as I understand it._

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_So, here’s a story for you. Now, as far as storytelling goes, there are a few rules:_

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_1.) As my baby girl reminds me: Everyone is their own main character_  
_2.) As my dad told me: You never finish the story you thought you started  
_ _3.) And, as my wife taught me: At one point, everything that every character has ever done made sense to them_

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_These are important._

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_Trust me._

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_I don’t know how fair this is of me. I’m only in this epic for a little bit, so to think I can tell the whole story fairly is pretty presumptuous. I can only watch now and try and fit it in with the narrative I know. And I’m going to be honest, there are whole chunks of it that are missing – I don’t know what happened there, I don’t know what people were thinking or the why of everything – there are places I had to take some creative liberty and guess at what happened. Guess at how the main character saw his or herself, where they intended their story to go and where it went awry, and why things made sense. I can’t do all these main characters justice, but I wanted to tell the story._

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_This is for you baby girl._

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_Can’t wait to see you, Gosalyn._

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_-Kendall T. Waddlemyer_

__


	2. Where it Started

_St. Canard, January, 1985_

A phone clicks off a receiver, aborting the muted ring mid-cry.

“Hello?” 

A little breathless. The room is gray – faded colors of every hue that have been worn into muddles of each other until they’re all off-key echoes of What Used To Be. It’s called Time – wearing everything down the way it does. The weight of other stories all coming down into a sinkhole where Time has been present, but not observed. Sweat and grease hang in the damp air. Smells are particularly sharp in the cold of January.

The phone is plugged against an unruly head. His hair hasn’t been cut in a few months. It’s curly and standing higher and thicker above and across his brow than it should, and the hairline is thinking about receding early from being pushed back so many times. He pushes his hair back again. 

“Yes, I understand that-“ a garbled rebuttal on the other end of the line. “Look, what do you want me to do about it? I can’t-“ a vague gesture – something he’s not quite sure how to express. His hands are blocky and well-used. Worn like leather, but tough instead of smooth. 

“No!” there’s no sacredness to the quiet around the conversation, but no glaringness to it either. There’s no need to fill up the room with noise and life, what is offered is going to be swallowed in the density of the dark. And yet, something needs to be put forth. 

“No, that’s not an option.” The voice isn’t breathless anymore. It’s full and alive – moving with full treble. It’s not booming. Not panicked – not yet. But not as confident as may be desired. There’s something not quite holding up to the gravity of what’s being said on the other end of the line.

“I’m just a repairman!” he’s pacing – gesturing more. Trying to find something to do with his hands, somewhere to leave his eyes.

“I don’t care!” There’s the unwaveringness he was grasping for earlier. “No, I can, and I just did.”

The phone is slammed back down to the cradle. The conversation is over, but the pacing keeps going. A weary hand pushes the hair back again and then drags down the face. The kind of scraping we do when we want to clear our minds so desperately that we express it physically. A sigh and a growl. 

The familiar is calming. A rusting toolbox is heaved from the sagging carpet and clatters onto a table that shudders under the weight. Pieces are sorted through and those hands begin putting them together and taking them apart again. Reassembling. Rearranging. New perspectives are taken, and he adjusts his work accordingly.

Problems are like math equations. Here’s a basic one:

There are some things that everyone needs. When something is needed by a lot of people, that’s called demand. Whether or not people have it is supply. Problems come up when there’s high demand and low supply, and same for low demand but high supply. It’s one of those balancing acts that has to be explained much more simply than it actually is for any understanding of it to be had. One of the worst aspects of this whole issue of supply and demand comes where it comes time to determine how to meet the demand for the product. 

Money is a nice medium to use because it can get pretty much anything else, so there’s a high demand for it. Then there’s the supply. Don’t even touch that – economics is a whole different discussion. Suffice it to say that a supply is available, but now comes the issue of coming into the supply so it can meet the demand. 

This is where things get sticky.

There are thousands of ways to make money. A good chunk of them illegal. And now ethics, as well as economics factor into one of the terrifying math problems of life where it takes hours of study, patience, and probably a math tutor. But math tutors are hard to come by. No helpful suggestions coming in then – no hints, no tips or tricks. Just sit and figure out the math problem. 

That’s what he’s doing. Money is important. It’s hard to come by. How do you come by money? And when a lot of money is needed, how do you come by a lot of money? Factor in time. How do you come by a lot of money fast? Start solving by considering means. What skills are available to make money? Does it have to be earned fairly? Do the ends justify the means? See? This all turns into a huge mess.

The man takes his time with it. There are hundreds of little pieces in his toolbox to be restructured, taken apart and put with other pieces. Some connect well together. Some don’t. Some work well but take more pieces and more time than is practical. Some are ugly and basic, but get the job done. 

In a cold, basement apartment with work-hardened hands and time and stories from before this story started in this room, simple but efficient is a pretty good idea. There’s history and practice. A foundation has already been laid – that makes some approaches to that big math equation more palatable. 

The pieces are worked until one breaks and the man throws the rest of his work into the toolbox and swipes it off of the table entirely. He rummages through the cupboards and runs his thumb over a lighter to smoke a cigarette. He grinds the shaft into a wad of chewed paper in his mouth. Before long, the cigarette is too short for him to finish smoking it. The cigarette butt is thrown into the wastebasket and a cold cup of coffee is poured instead. He stews over it for a while before a half-hearted attempt is made at recovering the spilled guts of the toolbox. 

The lights come on, it’s too dark to see in the apartment after five for most of the winter. He doesn’t fix dinner. He gives up on the toolbox and finds a handgun to take apart and put back together instead. He’s good at it. He first learned how when he was eleven from watching his uncle – and since getting his own gun, he’s taken it apart and cleaned it at least once a month, whether the gun needed the cleaning or not. 

He’s fired it before too. With his uncle. They’d go shooting together. He thought it was important for every kid to know how to use a gun. There are things that are useful to know – just in case of an emergency. 

Emergencies like supply and demand.

Ethics doesn’t fit neatly into the equation, but it seldom does. It’s an oblong shape and is constantly cut to try and fit into a check-box compartment in the name of fairness.

And that’s where it started.


	3. What do You See?

“Yellow duck, yellow duck, what do you see?” he turned the page – not that she needed the help. She had the book memorized, but he’d learned that if she didn’t turn the page fast enough, she’d do it herself and her unpracticed toddler hands weren’t quite sure of the difference between turning and ripping.

“A boo hoase lookin’ a’ mee!” she twisted around and looked up at him for validation, whispy floating pigtails brushing his lip in an infuriatingly quick tickle.

“Yeah, a blue horse. Good job. What does the horse say?”

A raspberry, the closest she could get to the snorting sound. 

“Mmm, atta girl.” That deserved a sloppy kiss on her chubby cheek. She squealed and wriggled down from his lap, snagging the book and taking it with her.

“Boo hoase, boo hoase, whatta you see?” she pranced, spinning to make sure he was following her.

He caught her around her fat little tummy and swung her up onto his shoulders. “I see a green frog running from me.”

“Wibbi’,” she proudly patted the top of his head with her book.

“Yes, ribbit.” He reached up and clutched both of her little feet in a hand. “What do you see way up there, Babydoll?”

“Puppa cat lookin’ a’ mee!” she tried to beat her heels against his shoulders to add emphasis. 

“No silly, what do _you_ see?” he ducked and rose up on his toes to hitch her sliding rear back into place between his shoulders.

She handed the book down to him and scrambled to slide down. “Pa-pay- _pla_ -“ compound sounds were still a little tricky for her. “Play ball!” 

He helped her down from her perch. “Oh, and here she is, Waddlemyer has hit the ball way hard into left field.” He made his voice nasally and pitched, cupping a hand in front of his mouth to imitate the interference of the loudspeakers narrating a game.

She started careening around the table and chairs of the dining room, little legs spinning as fast as they would go. He loved this game.

“Here she is coming up to second, look at that action ladies and gentlemen. No wait – no she couldn’t be. She’s going for third base!”

There was nothing more undoing than her chubby arms swinging as her legs wobbled to keep her body propelling herself forward. She was about to trip; he was sure of it. She was going to nosedive into the cheap linoleum, but somehow, she stayed upright and zig-zagged between the chairs and under the table, pulling a sharp U-turn to run into the kitchen. She was so sure of herself.

“Absolute madness! She’s trying to steal home! I can’t watch!” he covered his eyes.

And there it was, the little slap-slap of her baby shoes absolutely pounding the floor as she threw herself over to tackle him. 

He caught her before she made contact with his vulnerable legs. “Oh, they drove the ball home.”

Her big gray-green eyes looked up at him quizzically. “Safe?”

“No, you’re out.”

“Safe!” she insisted with a little baby lisp of a hiss, baring her teeth at him.

“That’s the game!” he bared his teeth back.

“Ump!” she tore away from him and started beating his knees with her fists. “Safe! Ump! Safe!”

The game was over, time to be a parent. “Honey, you can’t just look at me with those pretty eyes of yours and expect me to-“

She scowled up at him. She was safe. She would stick to that hill and die on it with every inch of her resolve until dinnertime. She would die on a lot of hills. She was so sure of herself. It melted his heart every time. How he loved her tenacity.

“Oh, Spunky girl,” he sighed, smiling again. “You can’t just be cute and think that means you’re safe.”

She mulled over that for a minute. “…out?”

“Yeah, but that's how the game goes sometimes.” He picked her up and knocked a kiss into her hair. How it had turned out such a pretty ginger color when his was such a garish red he’d never be able to figure out. 

A whimper of disappointment and she wriggled to be put down again. Her little monkey paws grabbed for the book. She stole it from him again and she went back to the last verse she remembered. “Boo hoase, boo hoase, whatta you see?” and a rumble in her throat that was supposed to be a nicker.

He couldn’t stand that pouty little beak and doing nothing about it. “I see a cowgirl riding on me.”

She turned on her heel and reached up for him, all smiles again. He swung her back up to his shoulders and she grabbed fistfuls of his hair as reigns to steer him around. He wasn’t too keen on that part, but she loved Horsey.

“This is the way the lady rides,” he walked as slowly and demurely as he could.

His rider kicked her heels in protest.

“This is the way the gentleman rides,” he walked with a little more purpose, thumping his heels on the floor to give her some feeling of power and inching his free hand up to hold onto her ankles again.

She pulled his hair hard one way. He seized her feet and followed the cue, desperately finishing the singsong with: “This is the way that Gosalyn rides!” and broke into a wild run in her desired direction. That did the trick. He jumped and did heel clicks, whatever he could to make it a bucking bronco ride. She loved it. She screamed her head off for the sheer joy of making noise (she did that often). She chortled and cackled and whooped and screamed again. She was getting too heavy for this.

“Woah!”

He slammed on the breaks at that third-party command. Gosalyn was still shaking all over with giggles and nearly tipped off his shoulders backward. The dad reflexes did not disappoint him, and he caught her before she slipped too far. “Hi, Mama,”

Her big eyes looked at him in horror. “We have _neighbors_ ,” she whispered, leaning over to get a good look at her husband and child. Finding them all in one piece she felt safe asking. “What was all that commotion?”

Her mate tipped his head to the side and looked her up and down, then grinned. “Wow, Liz…” a purr low in his throat.

She held up a finger and tried to look serious with her mouth, but her eyes were smiling. “Not a word.”

Willful rebellion, “Baby, you look _good_.”

“Did she break your eardrums with all that screaming? I thought someone was dead, dying, or broken on the floor for sure.” She took the active toddler from him. Gosalyn appreciatively murmured something to her mother before she squirmed to be put down again. Never had there been such a squirmy almost-three-year-old on the face of the planet they were sure, but she was their squirmiest-almost-three-year-old. “I said not a word, Kent.”

“You did, but I made the executive decision that I couldn’t properly admire my woman in silence.” He put on his most rakish, winning grin.

“Your what now?” she blinked and tipped her head back at him in that sarcastic way she had.

She was gorgeous when she tried to be intimidating. Not that she couldn’t be, but when she tried and there was no reason for her to have the tough-guy routine it was absolutely precious. “Ah, my mistake. It would be a shame to not acknowledge your beauty and brains with some kind of respectful vocal expression, most independent Mrs. Waddlemyer.” Let it be known, Kendall Waddlemyer could never be accused of being ungracious.

“Better.” She let him take her hand and spin her around. “I will have none of that bull-hockey in this house about your woman or anyone’s woman-”

“Language!” he protested, “Gosy’s listening.”

“I hope so.” She turned to check and see just where the toddler had run off to. “Gosy?”

A little red head poked out from under the dining room table. “Mmm?”

“You are strong,” Lizzie prompted,

“I yam stong,” she chanted back.

“You are worth it,” 

“I yam wuff it,” she came out from under the table and started prancing towards her parents.

“You are unconquerable.”

“I yam unconkabel,” and she ran back for a hug.

Lizzie crouched down to accommodate her daughter’s tiny build and let the little arms choke her. She tried to smooth the wild hair escaping the pig tails. “And I love you.”

“Mom- _my_ ,” Gosalyn squirmed away and started playing hopscotch with the linoleum squares. 

The young mother smiled and put her fingers to her lips, smooched into them and blew it.

Gosalyn waited until she’d hopped to the last square before she blew the kiss back, then her head went down, and she focused on hopping back from square to square again.

“Are you sure your dad doesn’t mind watching her?” she bit her lip in consternation as she watched the little tyke trample their rented linoleum.

The rakishness slipped for something more genuine and mature. “Are you kidding? Dad loves her. He’ll get a kick out of it.” 

“I feel like now is such a bad time –“ she rubbed her temples anxiously, a newer nervous habit, but he’d been starting to see it more often. “I mean, the holidays are hard…. What are we doing going out again?” 

“Lizzie” he put an arm around her shoulders. “We’re going because of that. You need something to help you unwind. We’re going to have fun.”

“You know what would be fun?” she tried to smile, but continuously changing shade of green in her eyes had darkened to a gray and he knew she was going to play the practicality card. “Not blowing our money on a stupid restaurant.”

“Love of my life,” he took both of her hands and held them to his chest. “Please, I am going to wine you, and dine you, and you are going to have a good time and stop with this little worry wrinkle you’ve started sporting 24/7.” He tapped the center of her forehead where her brows wrinkled together, and a hard line formed.

“I don’t want to be wined and dined.” She protested. “Let’s just take your dad out for dinner.”

Two could play at practicality. “Gosy goes to bed at 7, someone’s gotta stay to put her down. And if we’re holding an intervention for Dad then I’m going to be there. And you’re getting out of this house because you need some fun-“

“Let’s stay in,” she insisted, leaning into him. Her sweater was soft, but thin, easy to feel his body through. His flannel was thicker but didn’t hide him from her. It smelled of fabric softener and ink and sweat. “Just watch a movie or something.”

Hesitation, he searched her face, his own knitted line of concern creasing his forehead. “You really don’t want to go out?”

“I don’t want to impose.” She insisted. “Your dad needs space to grieve – it’s hard losing someone you’ve been close to for that long.”

He pulled her away from him and kissed her forehead. “Correction, _you_ need space. I know you like to be alone to process this stuff, but believe me, Dad needs to feel useful and helpful. He doesn’t bite his lip and walk it off like you do, he needs to heal; and if he can have a little ray of sunshine like Gos for a few hours, he’ll be thanking us. You, on the other hand, need a night or three off from that blindingly bright stick of dynamite. I see this as an absolute win all around.”

Her sandy plumage prickled and bristled in agitation as she tried to think of a comeback and couldn’t. Liz mulled until she resigned herself to Kendall’s argument and her feathers smoothed back out. “Okay, but for the love of all things good, please not an expensive restaurant.”

“Just Applebees,” he promised, “You love Applebees,”

“I do,” she conceded, pulling away, and rescuing the discarded book from a heap on the floor where Gosalyn had dropped it. “I’m sorry I’m such a grumpy pill today.”

Kendall followed her, “Hence we’re going out so you can have a break and get un-grumpified.” He reminded her, threading his arms around her waist. She stopped and let him hold her, let him inch his beak over her shoulder and nudge her cheek with his mouth until she turned to address the invasion and they kissed to get him to quit being so cute and sweet.

“No!” Gosalyn had seen the kiss out of the corner of her eye and come back to pummel her father’s knees. 

Lizzie held Gosalyn back with a foot and put her hands on her hips. “You don’t do that. No. Hands are not for hitting.”

Gosalyn glared back at the green eyes she wore copies of. “No.” she repeated.

“Are you angry?” Liz was a truly masterful glarer in her own right and matched Gosalyn ounce for ounce. “Hm? Use your words.”

A sulky pressing of her beak back together.

“Are you jealous?” Liz prompted again,

Kent wondered if there wasn’t a more persuasive way of getting her to talk and pulled Lizzie over and pressed his lips to hers again.

Gosalyn looked up and bit her lip in a baby imitation of her mother. She blinked her eyes hard once or twice and squirmed to keep her hands to herself. “…p’ease?” she asked tentatively, slowly reaching her open hands up to the adults. 

“There are enough kisses to go around,” Liz scooped her daughter up and kissed her cheek to prove it. “We can share kisses.”

“No,” Gosalyn maintained, but snuggled close, looking very pleased with herself and beguiling her father with those big, baby eyes until he leaned over and kissed her other cheek.

“Old man alive, we’re going to spoil you rotten.” The mother realized, suddenly disgusted with herself.

“Excellent. I aim for my girls to be spoiled rotten.” He ignored the look she shot him over that possessive participle: ‘my’. They _were_ his girls. Her feminist agenda could go wherever else she wanted it to; these were _his_ girls; he was wrapped up around their little fingers each, and they were pieces of his heart up and walking around in different bodies. They were his girls, and he would call them as such. “So, I’m going to go and change really quick before Dad gets here so we can depart as soon as he takes command of home base and we can have maximum time to spoil you.”

“Okay,” Gosalyn squirmed to be let down again and Liz instead dropped the book again and heaved her daughter onto the couch. Gosalyn loved it and crowed, then slid off and ran back for her to do it again. “We’ll be waiting.”

***

There are few things as thrilling as being called by name. To be known and acknowledged as an entity. To have your identity upheld and to be reminded of it yourself. In such a big universe, as an infinitesimally small, single person, to have a name and significance was nothing short of a miracle.

It did his old heart good to see that little pixie face in the window of the apartment and hear her scream at the top of her lungs:

“Gandpa!!!!”

“Hello, Gos,” she’d beaten her parents to the door and would have tackled him if he hadn’t heard her shout and known to be ready for her before he even finished pulling his key out of the lock. He picked her up and tossed her into the air like a football – she absolutely loved it and howled in delight. Her grandmother had hated when he’d done tha-

Oh.

“Dad!” Kendall was holding a comb in one hand and had only half of his red mess in order. “Oh my gosh, Liz had to use the bathroom and this little escape artist-“

“No harm, no fowl.” He assured his son. “Nothing but a little bottle rocket waiting to go off.” He handed his grandchild back to his son. “She still keeps you on your toes, I see.”

“She’s not drinking coffee until she turns thirty.” Kendall had always been illustrative rather than direct with his answers. 

“Now, now, she’s just a little spirited.” Thaddeus nagged teasingly as he followed his son into the house. “I told you when she was born that she had spirit. Spirited, Son, that’s the scientific term for it.” 

“Is it now?” Kendall grinned ruefully as he set Gosalyn down and went to work on the other side of his head. “I could have sworn it was – the door!”

Gosalyn was the curious type and any open portal was an invitation, especially when it was the front door. As soon as she’d been set down, she wasted no time in trotting over to it.

Thaddeus was close enough to the door to shut it before Gosalyn got to it. The grinding of baby teeth was meant to make him feel guilty, but she was too excited to see Grandpa to be really angry. So, she pouted for a second, then caved and went to Grandpa to be picked up.

“She thinks she can go out that door all by herself like a big girl,” Kendall tried to cover his worry with a laugh. “Too fast, Gosy, you’ve still got some growing up to do before we let you go.”

She was too busy patting her grandfather’s plump cheeks that she’d inherited to pay her father any mind.

“How have you been, Dad?” Kendall asked tentatively.

He had to smile and screw his eyes shut to brace his face against her firm little palms, but that made him open his eyes and hold Gosalyn out at arm’s length and shrug. “Oh, the house creaks. I don’t sleep much anymore. Work is keeping me busy though.”

“Don’t work yourself into the ground, Old Man,” Kendall chided tentatively, “I’m glad you’re keeping busy but, y’know, cut yourself some slack.”

“Oh?” Thaddeus shot back, “Just who’s the parent here anyway?”

Kendall put his hands up in surrender. “Hey, hey, I wasn’t going to-“

Thaddeus chuckled, tucking squirming Gosalyn under his arm – again, like a football. “I’m just giving you grief. I’ll be careful. Everyone at the lab has been really good, checking up on me and all that. And you call me nearly every day. You know Lizzie’s office sent flowers to the grave?”

“She mentioned she wanted to do something.” Kendall murmured. “How do they look?”

It was then that she made her grand entrance. They were going to Applebees, it didn’t demand formality, just the occasion of date night suggested that some extra effort ought to be put in. She was lovely in a periwinkle sweater and gray skirt hitting just above her knees. Not so much the outfit, but how she carried herself – Elizabeth had such a bearing about her that brought focus into the room, whereas Gosalyn scattered attention as she was here and there and everywhere. Speaking of, she’d scrambled down from Grandpa and ran up to her mother. 

“Gandpa’s heew,” Gosalyn announced, pointing and hopping up and down in excitement. 

“I see, hi, Dad,” she stooped to let Gosalyn grab her fingers and lead her over to Thaddeus.

“We were just talking about you, Lizzie, I was telling Kendall about the flowers your office sent. They’re beautiful, thank you.”

Lizzie ducked her head and squirmed in pleased embarrassment. “I’m glad you like them, if there’s anything else we can do for you, please let us kn-“

He waved her aside. “Liz, you’re raising this little sprocket and keeping my airheaded son on track. You’re doing plenty, now I just get to wait. Time heals all wounds and all that.”

“I’m sorry, I’m your what?” Kendall scrambled to decide how offended he needed to look and sound by that jab.

“A mess, give me the comb.” Lizzie broke free from Gosalyn and took it from him, smoothing the wild tangle of red into a smoother sheet of copper. “What did you do?” she snubbed, “Let a bird make a nest in it?”

“Yeah, and they’re gonna be livid when they realize you’ve wrecked it.” He snarked back.

“Birds belong outside.” She refuted, stepping back to examine her handywork. Finding it to her satisfaction she took the comb away to return it to its place. “They’ll get over it.”

Lizzie was firmer than Rose had been, more direct, more driven, but the warmth and confidence was consistent. Some motherly aura each sweet creature who gave her life to someone else developed in her own way and own time, but certainly possessed. “You did good, Kendall,” Thaddeus praised.

“Yeah, I’m still not sure how I pulled that off.” He confessed. Gosalyn reached up to him and he picked her up again. “But thank goodness I did.” He shook the awe away. “Anyway, bedtime is at seven. We bathed her last night because she’s a terror in the tub, so no need to worry about that. Umm, grilled cheese and tomato soup in the fridge for ya – she won’t eat it if you don’t cut it into triangles. No sugar before bed either.”

“Oh, a picky eater, are we?” Thaddeus took his grandchild back. “We’ll see about that.” He knocked a kiss on her chubby cheek and set her squirming body down. “We’ll be fine. Go have fun.”

“She loves _Brown Bear, Brown Bear, What do you See?_ If she won’t go down then-“

“Not for bedtime,” Liz corrected, returning and pulling a coat from the closet. “She gets too excited with that book; she needs to relax.”

“She’ll be snug as a bug in a rug and soundly asleep by the time you get back.” Thaddeus promised his daughter-in-law. “Have fun.”

“Thanks, Dad,” Kendall opened the door and blocked Gosalyn from bolting out of it while Lizzie made a hasty exit and blew a kiss over her shoulder. “Love you, Gosy, be back soon.” And he too danced out the door, expertly keeping her yet in the apartment.

Gosalyn ground her teeth together again at the door being shut on her a second time. But she had Grandpa all to herself and a couple of hours before bedtime. She perked back up and returned to her grandfather. “Dinna’?” she asked,

“Are you hungry?” the ginger head bobbed up and down, “Sure, let’s get you your dinner.” He offered his hand, and she curled her fingers around his and they ambled to the kitchen.

**Author's Note:**

> Aaaahhhhaahhhhh! 
> 
> So excited to be here folks. Just a quick info dump here:  
> 1.) I'll be shooting to update this story every other week, so probably no update until the 20th or so, but I will do so consistently until it's done.  
> 2.) With that being said, I apologize from the depths of my soul that my very first offering here with an immediate break is soo short, but again, I promise I will keep up on it.  
> Edit: correction, I have 0 impulse control and the story really doesn't get engaging or worth reading until chapter 3 so I updated it now. Now I'll stick to the every other week schedule.
> 
> And honestly - I just have to say thanks to all the great people on here who gave me the courage to start sharing this crazy I've had in my head for years. Reese and Becca - thanks.
> 
> -Rainee


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